


Play pen

by letosatie



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 5 Times, Canon Disabled Character, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Old Age, PWP without Porn, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:51:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to corral any of my tiny fics so they don't scamper around AO3 like an unleashed monkey army.</p><p>Mind the individual chapter warnings; not all of the fetus fics will be created equal.</p><p> </p><p>Chapter 1: Epilogue -is elderly Cherik fluff.</p><p>*** Chap 6 is Explicit.  Tread warily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epilogue

These days it was awful to take Erik and Charles out in public and the children drew straws each week, the loser left to drive the elderly men into town.

The children were no longer children, many of them retired or close to, but they could still hear Erik in the evening saying loudly, “I said, the children advise it’s time for dinner!”

“You’d think they’d speak up,” Charles would offer, “I’m sure I raised them better than that.”

Charles was quite deaf, but refused to admit it. After all, he could hear what was being thought well enough, and it was not his fault people didn’t say what they meant.

This was not so bad when a shopkeeper asked how she could help, but thought privately that she wished the old codger would hurry up. Charles would merely say, “I’m sorry to impede your swiftness my dear, but if you would just answer some questions about these gloves, I could make a decision more quickly.”

It was more problematic when a server asked for his order and Charles heard her wonder if her husband was really cheating on her. Then Charles was wont to say something along the lines of, “Goodness, why would anyone have sex with anyone else when they could have you. You’re a very attractive young lady with a stunning genetic mutation that I’d love to examine more closely.” And he would smile reassuringly. 

Even if Charles managed to avoid coming across as an elderly lecher, Erik would soon interject and instil unerring fear. Charles was eager to talk to anyone and everyone, but Erik would terrify Charles’ conversation partners, glowering at them until they removed themselves from the competition for his Charles’ full attention. 

Furthermore, Erik insisted on operating Charles’ chair with his power, causing no end of damage to whatever or whoever had the temerity to be in the way. When it came to other people’s persons or property, the well from which Magneto drew his fucks to give had been bone dry for years. 

They had a full time nurse who set them up in the larger corner bedrooms, the better to accommodate their various required medical equipment. Charles’ bed was propped at a comfortable angle for his back, and Erik was meant to breathe assisted by a CPAP machine during sleep. But late at night, Magneto would patiently hobble down the corridor, levitating his metal, hospital bed behind him and knocking priceless vases over in the process. And so, Logan would find them in the morning, sleeping next to each other anyway. Their hands would be clasped in the depression between the beds where Erik had lined them up. Their minds would be each wrapped up in the others, sharing dreams, always with twin expressions on their craggy faces, whether a pleasant memory or a nightmare engaged their entwined subconscious. 

The smaller students were convinced the East Wing was haunted, the scraping sounds and tinkling crashes breaking their slumber every night. Kitty was headmistress now and Logan came with her when she gently explained the nurse’s reasons for sleeping Charles and Erik in separate rooms and the lack of sleep Erik’s night-time transfer was causing the younger mutants.

Charles said, “We have very little time left; we do not have your special gifts for long life, Logan. We have spent our lives, bookends of the same soul. The space we kept between us contained and supported your developing stories and ensured new volumes were added snugly between us. For this last little while, let us rest side by side.” Erik encapsulated Charles’ hand at this point, his eyes flickering flashes of regret and pride and devotion and peace.

Kitty kissed the Professor’s forehead, kissed Magneto’s cheek, said, “Yes. Yes of course,” as she wiped a tear with her knuckle.

“Her head says yes,” Charles observed.

“She said yes,” Erik yelled at him.

“Splendid,” said Charles. “Chess, Erik?” 

“If you wish to be defeated, I will certainly play,” said Erik.

“Pardon,” said Charles.

“Read my head, you old fool,” Erik shouted.

Logan and Kitty left them to it, and went to find the nurse to tell her she’d have to adjust her methods.


	2. By any other name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: contains M-Preg
> 
> Kid fic, established relationship.
> 
> David has firm ideas about the new baby.

David arches his little back and sticks his round belly out as far as he can. He pats his tummy with stubby fingers and says, “My baby is getting so big.”

"What baby?" asks Erik.

"I have a baby in my tummy like Dadda."

"Congratulations," says Erik, dryly.

Charles swings a look like a machete at him and thinks furiously into his head ‘Don’t play him dumb, Erik.’

'I'm not,' Erik sends back, 'just letting him have some whimsy. He's a baby.' To David, he says, “Do you think the new baby will be a boy or a girl?”

"My baby is a boy," David says, pulling his shirt up as if gender would be obvious through the skin of a tubby tum.

"Ok," says Erik, "What are you going to call your baby?"

Charles says, threateningly, “Erik.”

"Booky," David informs Erik.

"Booky?" both Daddies query.

"I like books," explains David.

Charles and Erik look at each other. Charles looks nonplussed; Erik is snorting in an attempt not to laugh.

"How long will it take for my baby to come?" asks David.

"That depends on how quickly your father can advance mutant medical science, I would imagine," says Erik.

'Not helping, Erik,' comes Charles' irritated mental reprimand. He tells his son, gently, “Three years old is too little to grow a baby big enough to be born, David.”

"I’m nearly four."

"Still not big enough."

"Huh, I’ll just keep him safe in here ‘til I’m big and he’s big," David decides.

"Oh," says Charles, rubbing his sternum with the heel of his hand where his heart suddenly hurts.

"You are having a girl baby," David tells him, eyeing Charles’ bloated cardigan. "Her name is Polaris."

"Polaris," booms Erik, "I like it."

"We agreed. Grace, or Edie, or Lorna," says Charles. "I get a say, don’t forget."

"Alright," says Erik, floating everyone’s forks and tapping their hands with them. "Back to dinner. Eat up, especially those of you growing babies."

Charles, obediently, grasps his insistent fork and begins to eat, but David bends over clutching his tummy. “I’ve eaten my chicken and corn,” he says, “but I can’t eat my peas, they make Booky really sick.”

This time both Charles and Erik have to stretch stern faces over bubbles of laughter. Charles’ eyes are darting away desperately so he isn’t triggered again by David’s alas-alack demeanour; Erik is covering his face with his hand, his shoulders leaping up and down as he directs his chuckles to the peas on his plate.

 

Two months later, Erik carries a solemn David into the nursery to meet his new born sibling. 

"Look David," Charles says, quietly, "Lorna is here."

"No, that’s Polaris," David says. His big, blue eyes are lit up, it’s clear this tiny sleeping being is a treasure beyond any toy Robot Uncle Tony could bring over. "Can I have her?"

"No," says Erik.

"Yes, darling, climb up. I’ll help you," says Charles. He settles David in his lap, before placing Lorna across David’s stretched out legs, his own hand still cupping the fuzzy head.

David fans his hand over Lorna’s swaddled chest and beams at Erik. “Polaris has green hair,” David tells Erik, as the room is invaded by Raven.

Raven kisses Charles, punches Erik on the arm, ruffles David’s hair. She coos, “Can Auntie Raven hold Lorna?”

"That’s not Lorna, that’s Polaris," David corrects, refusing to move his protective hand until Raven concedes the name.

"You have a new sister, David," says Moira, when she arrives.

"Her name is Polaris," David informs her, glaring. She nods in agreement and is rewarded with a shiny smile. 

Tony comes in loudly, waking the baby. “Hush for Uncle Tony, Lorna,” he shouts, jiggling her until Erik is wincing and reflexively grabbing for her.

"Be gentle with Polaris," David warns, waggling a chubby finger.

'Who's Polaris?' Tony pantomimes.

When Alex visits, he says, reverently, “She’s beautiful, Professor. What’s her name?”

Charles and Erik look at each other. Erik smirks, shrugs. Charles smiles, looks at Alex, and says, “We call her Polaris.”


	3. If Charles had chicken pox...

If Erik had chicken pox, Charles would get sympathy spots. 

If Charles had chicken pox, Erik would maim a medical professional. Then he would sweep Calamine Lotion off the pharmacy shelf in the style of Wesley Gibson shopping for peanut butter and spend hours dabbing each new spot on Charles, never having to pause to distinguish between them and the previously memorized and always loved freckles. He would sing Guten Abend, gut Nacht, von englein bewacht until the lotion was dry and then kiss each pink splotch and tell Charles he looked beautiful. He would run his finger tips lightly over Charles’ skin until goose bumps came up in order to cool Charles down, no matter that it made Erik heat up…


	4. Of metal and wood.

Charles is of wood, the prune-like Chinese woman tells him. He is a tree, roots dug deep in humanity, willing to share and take in equal measure. He will spread far and wide, she promises, seeking knowledge and providing shelter for many. 

It would be good, she advises, to find a partner of earth. Someone for whom to provide stability, someone to suck goodness from; a symbiosis.

But Charles’ life is marked by metal. 

His mother is metal. She is a cage, surrounding him tightly with rules. It squeezes and shapes him, and when he out grows her she cannot impede him but she is caught hopelessly up in him and he will drag her along forever.

His sister is metal. She is a brace. She props him up against the storm of his step-family and he hides her in turn. When she is no longer there, he hopes he is strong and stable enough to remain upright. It doesn’t seem so for a long time.

And Erik is metal. He is a chisel, who carved himself deep and secret somewhere in Charles, beautiful, unrepentant gouges. They can’t be seen, but they mark him. Charles knows it’s there. Erik knows it’s there. Not even the serum and whiskey and rage can sand it smooth.


	5. Closed doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentioned dub con due to employer/ employee relationship, suspected, but not actually occurring, physical violence
> 
> Written for kageillusionz as an addition to a remix of her work Lay with me Amongst the Grapevines

“When the old man finally procures me a valet, I won’t put up with the sort of lip Xavier gets from his man.”

“I might, if he can turn me out that well. How he matched that waistcoat and tie last week; perfection.”

“Hmm, and Xavier had Oxford bags well before anyone else, when they were just baggy trousers with cuffed legs. Though, for my money, Lehnsherr dresses the poor chap in magenta and purple far too frequently.”

“I wouldn’t call Xavier a poor chap. I had it from Lodge that he beats his valet.”

“Xavier? No, I can’t believe that. He has some very modern ideas about the working class.”

“No really, only listen. Lodge and Sheppherd were greeting Xavier and Sheppherd said Xavier was looking ‘delicious’. Then the valet, Lehnsherr is it? muttered something… something about a race apparently, there was mention of ‘lapping’ and the ‘whole’ of something. Xavier was red-faced and Lodge alleges he was so angry he was breathing heavily and he matched the valet back to his room. He even chased him the last few feet, if Lodge is to be believed.

Lodge claims there followed an horrible thumping and slapping commotion and the valet could be heard to be crying out. Lodge says he heard sobbing, moaning and even begging from the poor fellow.”

“Good Lord, that’s beyond necessary, surely?”

“Still, Lodge may have exaggerated.”

“Oh look, there they are.”

“Xavier certainly seems pleased with himself.”

“I say, tell me if I see this rightly, the desperate valet appears to be limping!”

“I’d never have thought Xavier to be that callous an employer.”

“Well, one never knows what goes on behind closed doors, does one?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit. (So explicit. Turn away young and impressionable readers, while you still can!!!!)
> 
> Written for Clarounette in the 'porn in your mail box' tumblr thang. Rofroy.

The ring of muscle pops open to take a wide diameter of cock. He tries to relax, sweats in the attempt, but it stings, burns, and the air steams hot and rushed from his nostrils in place of the whimper that wants to come.

-It’s no good, he thinks, I’ll have to have him take it out briefly.

But, as he opens his mouth to ask, cheeky lips press between his shoulder blades, curved in a smirk, and a soft-breathed growl tumbles over his shoulder to his ear.  
-I love you, Edward, so much.

And Rochester gasps, relaxes, melting, pushing back. A flurry of love halos his head and a grumble of buzzing desire hurricanes in his groin. He thinks about saying, -I love you too Tom, but the shudder that ramps up his body as Tom thrusts shakes his thoughts right out of his mind leaving only the space in him that Tom is filling.


	7. Bloodied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature rating. Wounds and sex.
> 
> Written for Red during the 'porn in the mail-box' insanity.

He is supposed to be angry. He can’t condone that Erik has got into yet another fight… but. But. 

The open slit of lip puffing out calls to him haunting as a siren. He runs his tongue over it and has to quickly abort a satisfied moan. There is a cross-hatch of grazing on the top of Erik’s shoulder. He drags his blunt nails over it and Erik hisses.

Erik eyes him and Charles tries to look away, hide the spine crawling want arresting him. Erik chuckles silently to himself and takes his shirt off to reveal a semi crusted and shallow gouge, carved back along his ribs. It angles slightly downward as it traces posterior, pointing Charles to Erik’s arse.

“Erik,” says Charles, and it doesn’t sound disapproving, just strangled and revealing.

Erik scoops a finger pad full of sticky blood from the scrape and rubs it onto Charles’ bottom lip. Charles tries not to wipe it clean, tries so hard not to lick, with Erik’s gaze on him like manacles, but… But. It’s salty, tangy, still warm when he gives in, sucking his lip in, his eyelids sinking shut.

Erik pounces. He knocks Charles onto his back, guides one of Charles’ hands on his ribs and the other on his arse, and kisses Charles, ruts against him, back curving, a graceful question mark. Charles makes a sound that could be a sob and Erik pulls clothing aside, enough to get skin on skin. He has Charles writhing, the desire on his face as raw and vulnerable as Erik’s knuckles where someone else’s face broke the skin.

“You love me,” taunts Erik.

“I don’t, I don’t, I don’t,” chants Charles, rubbing his cock against Erik’s hard, flat belly.

Erik reaches between them and strokes Charles off, firm and slow. “Look at me when you say that,” he demands.

Charles looks; then looks away.

Erik brings him to the edge, where Charles has his knee squeezing into Erik’s side and his hips pulsing sporadically, and then growls into his ear, “You. Love. Me.”

“Yes,” says Charles, as he lets go.


	8. Nipple Fix

Erik had just changed for the pool, holding his goggles in one hand and his towel over one shoulder. As he walked through the changing room, he was thinking about training and how quickly he would need to swim if he was ever going to beat that smug bastard, Janos, who seemed to cut through the water like it was parting for him. He almost walked into something and grunted in generous apology.

Then he stopped.

The something was nipples. Well, they were probably attached to someone but Erik was fixated on two pink and perfect nipples. Erik loved nipples. They were so precise, and Erik enjoyed precision. So much joy, so much intense feeling packed into a tiny nub. God’s best feat of engineering, in Erik’s opinion.

Erik could spend unlimited time lavishing attention on nipples. The nipples’ owners tended to get bored well before he did. Erik was convinced his divorce had occurred because Magda had become weirdly frigid about Erik’s superior nipple loving moves. It certainly wasn’t because Erik was an arrogant, selfish, diva-like, arsehole fat-head, as Magda attempted to cite when she filed.

These nipples were glistening, having already been in the pool, cold and drawn up tight. They had only a few fine hairs surrounding them for modesty, not enough to hide anything from Erik’s persistent, hot stare. Ugh, what he would do with those. He’d dive right in and suck one into his mouth, tonguing it and then letting the flesh escape with a pop. He’d scrape his teeth along the sides, barely there but, oh, enough to send spasms ricocheting around inside the skin. Erik would feel it too. As the nipple stood up, panting after Erik’s tongue, so would Erik’s cock, proud of his achievement. He’d soothe, laving over the whole area with the flat, fat centre of his tongue. And he’d play, the pointed end of his tongue wiggling and flicking back and forth, gyrating around and over the tip of the nipple until it, and Erik’s balls, would be compact and hard and aching.

Then, Erik would start on the other one.

The nipples jumped as someone cleared their throat.

Erik became shockingly aware of the nipples’ existence within a fantastic body which was perched in a small, sporty wheelchair. Erik designed metal furniture for a living and liked to think he had a good sense of metal, but he’d completely missed that while in the thrall of the nipples.

“Excuse me,” crooned an amused, caramel voice. Erik tore his eyes away from the nipples of heaven and blasphemed shamefully in his head when he realised the nipples and the body were attached to the face that all other faces were measured by, and that all other faces fell desperately short of. There were no other eyes, in the world, to match that colour blue with those fairy dust inclusions. There were no other noses, in the universe, with such adorable freckles, inspiring unfamiliar tender feelings under Erik’s own nipples. There were no other lips, in all of history, with that degree of plumpness nor so seductively shaped. Erik worked with fabric for his furniture and had an eye for colour, thank you very much, and those lips were the exact shade of Erik’s flushed prick as it was just about to come.

The eyebrows of the face also seemed to know what Erik was thinking, which was impossible because Erik practised his imperturbable expression in the mirror in the mornings. Although, Erik was in swim trunks and the face in the chair was at crotch height, and there were certain clues to the keen observer.

“You know,” the nipple/ body/ voice/ face package said, with apparent casualness, “I’ve been known to orgasm just from someone skilled providing pleasure for my nipples.”

In the suggestive silence, Erik knew for sure, he’d just been propositioned by the peak of human evolution.


	9. Go through.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by Hyperballad by Bjork

Given the man Charles is, Erik is aware that his morning routine is not truly a secret. They operate, however, as if it is. As if Erik can slip from Charles’ side in the close pre-dawn, from the bed, from the room, from the house, and sit in the forest near the lake house shredding the garden tools, liquefying them and making them dance like a cape, as if Erik can fling pieces of scrap through the trees, guiding them to skirt around the bark by a whisper, as if Erik can bend thick iron in balletic lines and twist them and straighten them taut as string, for as long as it takes, as if Erik, finally spent, can piece himself and the tools all back together and stride around the house checking every pipe and every nail is in place, before inserting himself back into the Erik sized dent in the sheets without Charles missing him. 

Charles merely shifts closer and sniffs the traces of white pine and red cedar swilling with Erik’s own scents. He has his own secrets, his own demons, his own survival strategies. It’s impolite to judge so long as it works and Erik continues to return and fit himself into the shape Charles has provided.


	10. Bump and grind.

Charles is aware he is under average height for a white American male, and there’s a variety of people pressed into what will undoubtedly become the mosh pit of the venue. It’s a relatively small show, the standing crowd about 100 strong, but Charles can currently see dick shit. 

“I can see,” Raven, currently in the guise of a 6 foot Ugandan man, projects into Charles’ mind. “If you want, I’ll give you a piggy back. A mental one, I mean.”

“Thanks Raven,” thinks Charles, gratefully. The sound system is playing background music at an incredible volume. Talking out loud is useless. 

“Thanks for convincing mom to let me come,” Raven returns, a huge, white smile on the rough, dark face she’s wearing.

The club keeps letting more people in and Charles is starting to have trouble keeping his feet under him as any available space gets filled with excited music lovers. Raven cups his elbow. “Okay?” she mentally queries. “You have thighs like an ostrich. You’d think it would be harder to knock you sideways.”

“It will be easier when the band is playing,” Charles tells her, “when we are moving, not fighting to keep our spaces.”

The audience sways sharply en masse and Charles’ cheek gets smushed into a shoulder blade. It smells like a wisp of forest in the cigarette, sweat infused club. The shoulder blade’s owner turns and glares.

“Sorry!” Charles yells, trying to convey the apology with his expression, lest his voice fail to reach the tall man’s ears.

The man nods and looks back to the empty stage.

After a while, a chain of giggling girls pushes between Charles and Raven and Charles stumbles into the same back. “I’m sorry, honestly,” Charles shouts, waving towards the snake of girls. The man’s gaze bores into Charles, looking for sincerity. Charles feels stripped, it makes him anxious, and he unconsciously wafts reassurance towards the man, whose light eyes widen.

Suddenly, the man grins, and holy crap, that is a completely different face, a confident, sassy, I-could-make-you-come-in-a-minute face. Or maybe that’s just Charles. 

Charles’ lungs stop working momentarily, long enough for him to gurgle unattractively in his throat, and Raven smacks him on the back. “Don’t die idiot, I need you to drive me home,” she shouts, voice deep and accented to match her look.

A roadie comes on stage and everyone surges forward. Charles is accidently slathered over the back of the same man, again. He looks up horrified and spluttering explanations that are lost in the surrounding noise. The man leans toward him and yells, “Its fine. Only, I’m usually the one bumping from behind!”

Of course, the background music cuts out at that point and “bumping from behind” reverberates clearly in the expectant silence. Charles is so red in the face he looks like Hannibal got him.

“I’m Erik. Would you like to stand in front of me?” 

“I’m Charles, and no. Thank you but I promise to stop impinging on your grooving space.”

“Grooving space!” yells Raven. “If only how tall you are matched how much of a nerd you are, you could see for miles Charles.”

“Thank you for that, Musaazi.”

The band strides onto the stage. Raven claps her hands and bounces up and down, an incongruous movement from a large, dark skinned man. And they’re good. The music rolls off stage on into Charles. He grabs Raven’s view point from her head, closes his eyes and moves loose and fluid. Now the audience is shifting like sand under the tide of the tune, Charles keeps his balance… for a few songs anyway.

Then his jaw cracks a little as he is propelled into someone’s arm. It reaches out and steadies him as his eyes pop open.

“Shit,” he says, looking up at Erik. Erik doesn’t seem offended. Charles pats him on the arm and steps away. It takes Charles a couple of minutes to relax back into the gig. 

This time when he bumps into Erik, he wasn’t pushed and he wasn’t swaying. He shouldn’t have lost his balance. Charles is frustrated and the music can’t reach him in the embarrassment and mystery. He clenches his fist and slams it into his leg. Then he shakes his head and indicates to Erik he’ll stand in front of him.

Erik smiles and makes space. 

After a song though, the space between them seems to evaporate and Charles, frowning, turns to shrug at Erik, who simply shakes his head and puts a long fingered hand on Charles’ hip. It’s a good solution, acting as bracing between them, and it feels nice. Charles can let himself drift on the guitar notes, let the kick pedal speed determine his heartbeat, let the lyrics sway his feelings. 

It takes him some time to notice Erik’s fingers are strumming under the front of Charles’ shirt and over his abs. 

Charles stiffens, and Erik’s fingers still. Charles is a hedonist; it’s hard to say no to bliss when it’s being freely offered. He reaches back and curls his hand around Erik’s thigh. It feels hard and hot through the denim. Soon Erik is pressed up against Charles’ back, Charles’ head has sagged onto Erik’s collarbone and they are swaying slowly to every second beat. Charles is running his palm up and down Erik’s leg and the thumb of his other hand is massaging the forearm Erik has wrapped around Charles’ waist. And God, Charles could melt here, get mopped up by the porter after the show.

“Control yourself! You’re leaking lust all over the place,” Raven stabs the thoughts into his head and Charles’ unfocussed gaze glides over her. “Seriously, Charles, snap out of it! If mom finds out you took me to a concert that ended in an orgy, I’ll never be let out again!”

Charles looks around sharply. The majority of the crowd is rubbing or mouthing at each other. 

Erik is peering at Charles curiously. “Empath?” he guesses.

“Telepath,” says Charles, half concentrating on how to rein the throng’s libido back in. He finds himself spun and slapped up against Erik, groin to groin. “I’m not doing this,” he insists, hands up in surrender.

“I am,” Erik says into his ear, and Charles shivers. “Watch,” instructs Erik. A couple near them are wrenched apart. They startle, and then cleave together again. 

“Telekinesis?” Charles asks, his face open with delight.

“Metallokinesis,” Erik corrects. “His watch strap, her studded wrist cuffs.”

“My belt,” breathes Charles, and slithers his hands up to clasp behind Erik’s neck.

When Erik kisses him, Charles can’t hear the band; he can hear his heart beating in his brain. Charles is over heated; Erik’s breath is steaming and his tongue like a lick of lava. Charles wants to hook his leg around this stranger. He wants to chew on this stranger’s lip. 

“Charles!” whines Raven, only it sounds like a threat in the deep voice she has assumed. Charles tugs his head toward her regretfully and Erik transfers his mouth to Charles’ jaw, his thumbs rubbing over Charles’ hipbones. 

“Umm,” says Charles. He can barely keep upright in the fury of Erik’s desire, let alone dampen everyone else’s.

“I’ll get it,” offers Erik, smirking.

The sprinklers open up, drenching the mosh pit but strategically missing all of the electrical equipment. The crowd shouts and starts to head to the bar, or out the exit. Charles smiles brilliantly at Erik who grins, self-satisfied, back. Charles thinks he probably started the kiss this time round. He definitely hooks his leg around Erik, while chewing on said stranger’s lip. It makes Erik growl and pick him up. Raven stomps her foot and then shoves in between them. 

“Okay point taken, Hiryangana,” says Charles, wriggling in his jeans.

“Ooh big threat,” Raven grabs Charles’ wrist and tows him toward the door. “Charles has to drive me home now,” she calls over her shoulder to Erik, and her voice carries over the milling crowd and arguing band members. “But we’ll be at Single Cell Fix for brunch if you want to bump into him tomorrow.”


	11. When one’s pride is rocked.

Erik, dizzy from The. Best. Orgasm. Of. His. Life, can only see separate details of the man who just rode him into the thin, squeaky mattress. Dazed eyes looking blissful, satiated mouth in a open smirk, sweat soaked strand of brown hair stuck on pale skin. It’s an accomplishment to have convinced Charles Xavier to take him home in the first place, Erik’s been ogling him from across a lecture hall for months; the additional prize of incredible sex has melted Erik’s brain somewhat.

Charles looks fuzzy around the edges in Erik’s post-coital vision and, yet, entirely too princely for someone who still has a dick up his arse. Erik is just questioning if this is what love feels like when Charles scoops up a fingerful of sperm and smears it across Erik’s forehead. It has already cooled and is simply incongruous above his eyebrows.

“Simba,” whispers Charles, reverently.

“Wh… what?” asks Erik. He’s confused and maybe a little frightened.

“What do you mean by, what?” Charles snaps, searingly in focus now. “Everyone knows about this.”

“No,” Erik argues, “they don’t.”

“Raven!” Charles yells. He’s still sitting on Erik’s not-so-hard anymore cock. “Raven, everyone knows about the Simba blessing, right?”

“Yes!” someone shouts back, sounding only marginally muffled through the wall and Erik does not want to think about the moaning and dirty talk he hadn’t held back on.

Charles’ eyebrow says, ‘See?’

Erik shrugs.

“But,” says Charles, and damn if he doesn’t look adorable even when confused, “you understand the reference though?”

Erik shakes his head.

“Lion King,” Charles prompts.

Erik shakes his head again.

Charles’ flat-out gorgeous face reflects hurt. “Raven!” he yells, “He doesn’t even know Lion King.”

“Kick him out!” comes the reply.

Charles disentangles himself from Erik. He regards Erik down his nose, seriously, sadly. “I think you’d best go.”

Erik rolls out of bed, snatches his phone from his jeans pocket, waves it at Charles. “I’ll prove this 'whatever' isn’t common knowledge.” He group texts Azazel, Emma and Angel: He drew a line on my forehead with his cum and whispered, “Simba.” 

The replies come back before he’s fully dressed and Charles hangs over his shoulder to read them.

Angel: Marry him!

Az: i told u to watch Lion King w. me you ignorant prick

_Frosty the snow bitch: You know nothing Jon Snow …'which', Erik thinks, 'what does that mean?'_

_The defeat on Erik’s face must be as blatant as a billboard because Charles sighs. “You’re cute,” he concedes, “and the sex was amazing so… if you can prove you’ve seen Lion King by Tuesday we can go out again.”_

_Erik is nothing if not a quick study._

_On Tuesday, he is waiting outside Charles’ last lecture. He has spent thirty minutes holding still for Angel and surrounded by a scary amount of cosmetics but he is now wearing a fake, vertical scar through the outside corner of his left eye._

_Charles bounces and tugs Erik’s shirt-front, grinning, when he sees it. “Are you here to prove you’ve watched Lion King and woo me back into bed?”_

_“Yes,” Erik smiles, unmoving but giving off the impression of circling prey. “ ‘My teeth and ambitions are bared. Be prepared.’ ”_


	12. But who came out on top?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High School au, Explicit, Underage, my 20sucksteen contribution.
> 
> Based off this tumblr post.  
> aph-badtouchtrio:
> 
> my brother and his ”“friend“” are having an argument over who would top between them if they were gay together
> 
> I’m sitting against his door listening to them and my brother says “i think my dick is bigger so i’d top” and his friend says “well i think mines bigger” and now there is silence i think theyre checking
> 
> It’s all quiet and my brother goes “bro, you’re fucking hung”
> 
> OK I THINK THEYRE FUCKING I’M GONE GOODBYE I DONT WANT TO HEAR THIS

…

 

“No,” says Erik, stubborn and surly. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is,” Charles insists, “and how would you know? You’ve only ever had sex with Magda.”

“Well, you’ve never had any sex, at all.”

“Low Lehnsherr. The point stands. I would top if we were gay.”

“I would,” Erik argues. “My cock’s bigger so I would.”

“You’re delusional. There is no way your cock is larger than mine.”

“I’m taller. It stands to reason.”

“You’re a beanpole. I bet your dick’s all skinny too. Mine is thick, like my built legs.”

“…and your stupid, thick head,” grumbles Erik. “Okay, prove it. Show me.”

“Ba… pft… well, mine gets bigger when it’s erect,” Charles stutters.

“Then make it hard,” taunts Erik. “I will too. Then you’ll see; I would top if we were gay.”

“Ooh, you’re going to regret this, Erik. Okay, make it mainly hard in our pants and then reveal at the same time.”

“Yeah good, ‘cause yours’ll shrink with shame when you see mine anyway.”

“Whatever. You’re going down!” Charles brags, and then coughs. “But not. Y'know not like that. Not like y'know if we were… I meant…”

“Charles shut up,” Erik grunts. “I’m trying to concentrate on something sexy.”

“Like boobs,” suggests Charles.

“Yeah, boobs.”

“Or Moira McTaggert’s legs,” pants Charles.

“Yeah, legs.”

“Okay I’m good,” declares Charles, over the sound of a zip.

“Me too,” says Erik, breathing hard.

“…”

“…”

“Erik, you’re hung.”

“Holy God, Charles. I mean, yes, I am. But you… your prick is… so pretty. It’s so red.”

“Yours is almost to your knee; how is it physically possible?”

“You’re exaggerating,” scoffs Erik.

“Not much,” Charles huffs.

“…”

“…”

“Can I touch it?”

“Um, yeah? Yeah. ooOOHh God. God, Erik. That feels amazing.”

Shyly, Erik asks, “Does it?”

“Yeah, so good. Let me. I’ll show you. C'mere.”

“Uh,” Erik exhales. “Holy… holy. Uh.”

“Keep going,” Charles pleads.

“I need,” says Erik, “I need. Take these off.”

“ 'kay.”

“Ch…” Erik gulps. 

“What?” snaps Charles, suspicious.

“Your balls are so cute.”

“Oh my God. Are you twelve? And they are not cute. They’re hairy. Like a lumberjack.”

“I want to eat them,” Erik confesses, sounding dizzy. “Let me just…”

“aughH my…”

“Beautiful,” Erik slurps, “Beautiful. I’m going to kiss your cock, okay?”

“Very okay.”

“…”

“Ah, very, very okay. So good, Erik,” Charles groans. “uh, your mouth. Sorry, sorry, I’ll try and keep still, it’s just God so good. Careful, you can’t go down that far. Oh. Oh okay, you can. That's… un-fucking-believable. So sexy. Erik. Er. Erik. eh. Aughhh… stop. Stop love. Can I kiss you?”

“No, I… I’ve been sucking you,” protests Erik.

“Don’t care,” Charles breathes. “Please.”

“Yeah okay.”

“…”

“Wait, Charles slow down, not so much.”

“Sorry, I…”

“No it’s good, you taste good, just soft okay?”

“ 'kay.”

“Yeah, like that,” Erik says, on a moan.

“You. Smell. Amazing, Erik. So. Sexy.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“You too,” Charles bargains.

“Keep kissing me.”

“Unff, Erik, your hands. They’re hot. Fuck. Put them… here,” Charles instructs, pushing his bum into Erik’s palms.

“Oh yes.”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re ass is awesome. Let me see it?” Erik whines.

“Uh, really?”

“Yeah, let me lick it, I’ll make you feel so good, Charles,” he soothes.

“I… Okay.”

“Kneel up here on the bed. Relax and rest your arms and head on this pillow. You’ve been hiding this awesome ass under those preppy clothes. I mean, how did I miss it?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Charles, yeah. I’m just gonna…”

“Oh my God!”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh my God.”

“Heh.”

“Oh my… Ah, I can’t uh, what? oh yes there, auh yes God. Yes. Yes. Yes. Erik yes… “

“Stop wriggling, brat.”

“Stop making my brain melt then. I can feel it all up my back, it's… mmmmm I don’t even know. Ooh, fuck. Wha? What’s that? Ouh yes, touch my cock. God, that’s good. Keep… yeah. Close.”

“I wanna see it. Sit up and lean back on me.”

“Gonna come, gonna… uah…”

“That’s so hot,” Erik groans.

“You.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I will,” Erik promises, lowering Charles to lie on the bed.

“Good,” says Charles faintly, waving a limp but encouraging hand. 

“Fuck,” Erik grunts out, finishing on Charles hip and leg.

“Oh you’re right. That is hot. Sticky,” he says, dragging a finger through Erik’s come, “but hot.” 

 

…

 

As they arrive at school the next day, Shaw greets them, flanked by Azazel and Angel. “Hi Xavier. Hey Lehnsherr.”

“Hello Sebastian.”

“Sooooo.” Shaw claps his hands together and rubs them palm to palm. “One of you is hung and one of you took it up the ass, apparently. Will you tell us which of you was which? Or you want us to guess.”

“Pardon?”

“We read all about it on tumblr,” Sebastian explains, and helpfully shows them the post on Angel’s phone.

“Raven,” Charles concludes, dully.

Erik, throwing a casual arm around Charles’ shoulder, says, “No one bottomed.” He smirks at Charles and shrugs, “Yet.”

Charles grins, blindingly, “But Erik’s fucking hung, though. It’s halfway down his thigh.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Erik says, ignoring Shaw and his purpling face.

“Not much,” gushes Charles. “You asked,” he tells Shaw, and they push past him and head to class.


	13. Five times Erik and Emma were sexually competitive and one time it wasn’t a competition at all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cherik, Emma & Erik brotp, Trans!Erik, canon disabled character, Mature or Explicit (idk there’s lots of sex references), 5x +1 fic, crack fic, ooc!Erik, established relationship,

5

Erik is woken by a terrific banging, and not the good kind with Charles on viagra and a day-long ache in his thighs afterwards. It’s accompanied by Emma’s shrill mental voice demanding entrance to his flat and bribing him with bagels. The latter earns Erik’s eventual capitulation. He rolls off his futon and shuffles to the door. 

“What?” he asks gruffly, stepping aside to let Emma in.

“Sleep in your clothes again, Lehnsherr?” she queries, smirking.

“Looks like.” He accepts the takeaway coffee she’s holding out to him and goes back to the bed. It folds away into his sofa but he figures if you’re a telepath who doesn’t forewarn of your impending arrival at your friend’s flat you can sit on their bed. “Do you have onion cream cheese in there?”

“I do because I am perfect.”

“Hand it over then,” grumbles Erik. They spend a few quiet moments preparing food and enjoying their impromptu bed picnic. 

Emma breaks the silence. “So I beat your record last night.”

“Why are we friends again?”

“Because we were the teen Princesses together, ruling our high school with our manicured fists, before you had your epiphany and transitioned into my Prom King instead. And you still do disdain better than anyone else. It’s what I look for in a bestie.”

“Alright then, what’s the number?”

“Twelve orgasms before Scott came, one simultaneous,” Emma brags, “thirteen altogether.”

“How long did it take?”

“Hour and a quarter?”

“Good, but arguable. Charles and I have done eleven of my orgasms to his zero and in fifty-two minutes,” Erik points out. “I think we’re still winning.”

“It’s not over yet, Lehnsherr.”

 

 

4

Erik finds Emma at the bar. “Hello Princess,” he greets, before asking the bartender for a beer. “I like the way you’ve co-ordinated your drink with your snow-witch outfit. What in hell are you drinking?”

“It’s vodka and milk. I’m sticking it osteoporosis and sobriety.”

Erik toasts her, “To the end of sobriety.”

“Speaking of sticking it to things,” says Emma.

“Nice segue,” smirks Erik.

“Thank you. I pegged Janos and didn’t have to reach round to get him to come.”

“You’re a credit to your master, my young apprentice,” Erik intones.

“You’re not my master, Lehnsherr.”

“Rubbish. It’s not as if I’m learning anything from you. It’s all you trying to emulate my achievements in bed.”

Emma inclines her head. “I admit nothing.”

“You’ll admit I’m better at sex than you when you hear what I managed this week,” Erik claims.

“Will I?” Emma raises an eyebrow and waits.

He lowers his voice, “I came with no erogenous zone stimulation, in fact, I was basically lying next to Charles sniffing his neck.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Sniffing him?”

“Uh, huh. He smells so good.”

“And you didn’t use hands anywhere, and he didn’t use hands anywhere…?”

“No, just one of my hands the back of his neck and sniffing,” Erik swears.

Emma narrows her eyes as she considers. “Okay, you win this round.”

 

3

“So where’s Charles?” Emma asks, scrolling through her Netflix queue.

“Faculty something-or-other,” Erik replies, tipping snacks into a bowl and disposing of the bag. He plops the snacks and drinks onto the coffee table and sinks into Emma’s quicksand couch. “If the couch eats me this time, Em, if I don’t get out… tell Charles his life was better for having known me.”

Emma rolls her eyes, it’s not the first time he’s complained about her couch. “Thanks for coming over,” she says, in lieu of biting back about her taste in furniture. “I’m sore.”

“Good sore? Or bad sore?” Erik inquires, handing her a cider.

“Good sore. I took Piotr’s fist last night.”

“Piotr Rasputin? Nickname Collosus? Hands that easily wrap around my waist?”

“Like that’s hard, Lehnsherr. My hands almost fit around your waist. But yes, that Piotr.”

“You know what Ms. Frost? You can have that record.” 

Emma laughs. 

Erik gathers her feet into his lap. “You know what else, Ms. Frost. You’ve earned a foot rub.”

 

2

“Charles,” groans Erik.

“Are you going to come for me, darling? Sounds like it, close aren’t you,” Charles has an unfairly sexy voice. It’s like a cascade of warm water washing over all of Erik’s most sensitive skin. 

“Uhh,” he manages. He’s lying on his back with his ass at the edge of the bed, one foot braced on the floor and the other on the arm of Charles’ chair, which is set as close as possible.

“Let me know when, Erik, when it’s too much, when you can’t hold it in, when you can’t stop, when you need more, and faster, and this little wriggle…”

And Erik tries, he really tries, but he’s not in control anymore, merely reacting, responding to Charles’ masterful fingers and his dynamic voice. Luckily, Charles is a telepath and he can tell when Erik’s brain lights up in orgasm. Erik isn’t ready for the way he shudders and his soul and brain and body, for once, are all in accord, all of them rolling out seeking Charles, ripples that disperse until he’s nothing.

“God, Erik, are you still going?”

Erik can’t actually answer, can’t look at Charles, can’t move any voluntarily controlled muscles anymore; he’s just shaking and moaning, with his eyes rolled back in his head, clutching Charles’ fingers inside him and praying in his head to still have a functioning mind after this. Charles is still crooning to him but Erik understands none of the words, can only feel where they drum on his nerves as viscerally as fingertips.

Finally, he slows and stops.

“God,” Charles grits out, “God, you’re magnificent.”

Erik’s voice is quavering when he asks, “How long?”

Charles chuckles, and checks the stop watch, “Thirty-seven seconds. You were right,” he says smugly, “the combo of my fingers and my voice do make for longer orgasms.”

“I love you,” Erik reminds him.

Charles kisses his foot. “Got control of your hands yet?” he asks.

“Yeah, what would you like? You want me to get you off?”

“No, I’m good, but you probably want to text Emma. That’s way better than her twenty-four seconds.”

Erik leaps eagerly for his phone.

 

1

Erik’s not sure how Emma looks like she’s strolling up the street with a latte, when in fact they are four miles into a very brisk eight mile run. She’s got a black cap on and her ponytail is bouncing like it’s waving gleefully. She wears leggings and a fitted singlet. Erik isn’t straight but he can appreciate.

“You look delicious Emma, how did that fool Shaw let you go?”

“I got rid of him, actually Lehnsherr,” she corrects. “He could not keep up. My thighs weren’t even getting a good burn going on before he was done.”

“Mmm, for obvious physiological reasons, I ride Charles a lot.”

“Yeah, your thighs and bum look like they get regular workouts,” Emma says, a bit disgruntled. 

“Wonder which of us can ride for the longest?” Erik contemplates.

“I’ve got no one to ride right now though,” Emma complains.

“Hmmm.”

They run another mile.

“I got it,” says Erik, making Emma start, “On Wednesday, we’ll have a moon-hopper-off. Same muscles, no need for viagra, or any partners, we can even watch Hannibal while we’re bouncing.”

“You’re on,” Emma agrees, “shake on it.”

On Wednesday, Emma bounces on a moon-hopper for three minutes longer than Erik.

On Thursday, neither of them can make their legs work to leave their apartments.

 

+1

“Emma?”

They’re sitting on the bathroom floor, holding hands. The tile is freezing Erik’s butt. He doesn’t fidget though.

“I can’t look,” she says, squeezing his fingers. “Erik.”

“Want me to?”

“Yes.”

He pulls his hand out of her grip, uses it to push up off the floor and looks at the bathroom counter. The little plastic stick has a plus sign in the window.

Erik sits down again, takes Emma’s hand and says, “You’re pregnant.”

Her head snaps up toward him, eyes wild with fear. “Fuck,” she breathes, and her voice is wobbly and raw. “You’ll help me Lehnsherr, won’t you? Oh my god, I don’t know the first thing about babies and fetuses and God I’m going to get fat. Shit, what if I ruin it? What if I do something wrong? I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to do this alone.” She crawls into his lap and clings. He wraps his arms around her so tightly she squeaks, but he doesn’t let up the pressure.

“I’ve got you, Em,” he says, and it’s solid, she believes him. Her breathing slows. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for nine months Ms. Frost, whatever you need I’ll provide. I’ll rub lotion on your belly, I’ll get ice-cream at two in the morning, I’ll yell at Starbucks’ staff for you when your hormones make you too teary to be effectively terrifying.”

They stay tucked up against each other for a bit longer until Emma says, wonderingly, “I’m really pregnant. There’s a baby in here.” She touches her tummy.

“It’s a miracle. You’re a miracle maker. A miracle oven. השבח לאל.”

“This is really happening.”

“Yes.”

Emma looks at him. Her chin sets at a determined angle and her eyes shift to steel. “Okay,” she says, and Erik knows she will be.

“Emma, you’re amazing. You’re my best friend. And I’m never going to be able to pay you back for having a baby for me and Charles. Thank you.”

Emma kisses him forcefully on the forehead and stands up, punching the air. “I’m pregnant!” She grabs Erik’s hand, hauls him to his feet and yells again, “You’re having a baby!”

“We’re having a baby!” Erik chants at full volume, letting his excitement show through.

“Oh my God,” shouts Charles through the door. “Are we having a baby?”

Erik flings the bathroom door open and kisses Charles. “We’re having a baby.”

“Emma,” croons Charles, “Darling mutant, you are an angel and a gift. C'mere.” He pulls her onto his knee and spins his chair around a few times, smooches her joyfully on the cheek and leans their foreheads together. “Thank you, love, thank you.”

Later, after dancing and hugging and texting Raven and one more incident of frantic panic, Charles this time, they settle on the couch and Erik gets them drinks.

“Single malt, single malt, milk no vodka,” he says, handing them out. They clink the glasses and sip. 

“I’m sorry you two weren’t able to do this by yourselves,” Emma says.

“Well, medically there was a lot stacked against us,” concedes Charles.

“I’m having a baby with both my best friends,” says Erik, “that’s alright by me.”

“You just don’t want the stretch marks,” Emma says, a bit sourly.

It’s quiet for a minute before Erik observes, “I bet you’re glad you did all that training now, y'know when you inserted all those huge objects in your vagina. Am I right?”

He looks very surprised and self-righteous under the barrage of cushions Charles and Emma lob at him in punishment.


End file.
